


her auburn hair (cut down to there)

by midnightluck



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-21 23:30:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/906233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightluck/pseuds/midnightluck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia Martin is always as she's ever been, which is something entirely new (especially to her).</p><p>spoilers for 3x09</p>
            </blockquote>





	her auburn hair (cut down to there)

She keeps drawing trees.

She draws them as they draw her. They draw her to them, and to other places, here and there when she means to go somewhere else, and they paint the broad strokes of her outline, shading in the crosshatch details with mourning white and danger red.

(she was always partial to white)

The tree draws her, and it leads her, dragging her when she fights it and then she shows up. She gets there and she knows that something's wrong and the feeling builds up in her throat like a bubble of grief, like a wail of worry and a mourning dirge even when _she doesn't know who died._

(and then she screams because of course she does)

Everything's broken now, though. Nothing's normal, not anymore, it's kind of blurring together in mist and fog and the rustle of wings in the night like shadows, like ravens and psychopomps and oh and her, she's there to watch the procession but hell if she's gonna tear at her perfect hair for anyone and the scream rises in her throat and she doesn't want to she doesn't want this she never did and

(she took music lessons as a kid but was indescribably mediocre)

And then she's there, at the tree. It's not far, just out of reach, just beyond her dimensions and she raises a hand to what she can't ever touch; she's the bridge, don't you see, and the warning and the weeper

(and the girl in the corner is everyone's mourner)

But.

but she is, she's a warning, so maybe if she knows she can _be_ her warning, she can open her perfectly glossed lips and let the warning ring _before_ and someone can stop it, some hero who isn't her, who is perfect and whole and good and not her--if she must scream then let her fit, let this one fairy tale at least be true, please let it because she will accept this that she never wanted, she will take it and run with it and dance under the trees in the mist and the rain and sing her screams to the skies and she will smile through it-- _if only she can be a warning_

\--there's been too much death in this town--

and she thrives on it, just so you know; girls like her scream to feed on the resonant necropulses and this town is a _buffet_ \--not that she knows the technical terms, or even knows what's happening but she has to breathe and it comes up and her lungs expand and her chest goes out and she puts _someone help me someone notice someone someone please won't you notice_ in the exhale

(she might be a changeling, she'll never know; she's not really human, anyway)

but the inhale next is filled with go juice, with particles of rot and decomposition free and floating and she never notices not really as they move into her lungs and settle in to reform her body and open her airways and expand her alvioli and reoxignate her blood and turn her into something that hasn't walked these woods since the last time the sun fell and as they do as they reshape her mind they have to also creep and crawl and shift because she can only be the her who isnt and that's not enough so she glows and shatters and leaves her sanity in glittershards on the floor like so much confetti because the thing she will be has no need of logic or math has no need of numbers she cant she will mustnt dont want cant and she can and she wontwontwont and she--

(and she would never have woken if it weren't for him)

(he used her as a bridge, anchored a tether into her in life and used it to pull himself back from death. she's known the touch of both and belongs in neither, and she can still taste the wolfsbane punch sweet on her tongue like a liar's silk. he woke her up and she's no one's contingency, no one's threat. she's never ever in anyone's debt.)

It's his fault, her responsibility, everyone's mess. He mustn't've been thinking when he did it, but she always follows logic through.

(because when she gathers that bubble and lets loose her cry, there is _always_ a dead body. always.)

\--she hates him.

He woke her up, and oh but she'll sing him to sleep.


End file.
